


The Caretaker

by AnnieTalbot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieTalbot/pseuds/AnnieTalbot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For five years after The Great Game, John Watson and Mycroft Holmes have met for dinner.  But tonight, at their final meeting, Mycroft has a story to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Caretaker

Mycroft didn’t stand when John approached the small table in its discreet corner. That didn’t bode well, and the doctor in him noted the grey colour and wasting in his face and the hand tremor that no amount of will could control.

 _Terminal, then. He must have stopped his treatments._

John suppressed a sigh as he took the seat he’d occupied on the first Monday of every month for five years.

“Good evening, Mycroft.”

The other man’s gaze was still sharp, not yet clouded by the cancer that was consuming his body from within. John could see him evaluating John’s expression, registering John’s understanding of his condition.

“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft gave a short nod, and the quirk of his lips confirmed John’s conclusions.

“Thank you for coming. I’m very much afraid that this will be the last time we shall have occasion to meet here. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering your usual, as I have a great deal to accomplish before... well, before I can no longer do so.”

“Of course, Mycroft, thank you.” John shook out his napkin as the waiter approached with the first course. For several minutes, the two men busied themselves with their spoons, John appreciating the thick, hearty soup, surreptitiously watching as Mycroft pretended to consume the broth he’d been served.

Finally, Mycroft abandoned his masquerade, setting the spoon down beside the still-full bowl.

“I won’t be able to watch over Sherlock for much longer, and while I’ve asked my staff to keep an eye on him as a personal favour, I know that cannot last forever.”

“Mycroft, Sherlock doesn’t require minders.” John’s tone was flat, but definite. They’d been over this ground many times in the past five years, but Mycroft had remained undeterred.

One thin, white hand waved away John’s words.

“But he does… he _must_ be protected. I’ve dedicated my entire life—”

His uncustomary hesitation told John how very important this was to Mycroft. John had long ago realised that the reason for Sherlock’s brother’s constant interference in his life was not merely born of a desire to control his younger sibling for the hell of it, as Sherlock had always maintained. But John had never been able to untangle the thrust and parry of what passed for conversation between the Holmes brothers sufficiently to discern what lay at the root of Mycroft’s actions.

“Our father was very like Sherlock. He had only two passions: his research and my mother, who was one of his students before he married her. He should never have been a parent, I think, but Mummy insisted on seeing her two pregnancies through. I’m told that I was a rather placid infant, and I looked enough like Mummy that Father found it easy to extend his affection for her to include me. Sherlock, however... well, he was rather more demanding. Father found himself having to compete for Mummy’s attention, and he didn’t like that at all.”

Mycroft’s eyes were fixed on his fork as he spoke, and his fingers turned it so that it caught the light. John wondered where this story was going... Why was it so important to Mycroft that he had risen from his sickbed _(his deathbed?)_ to don an impeccably tailored suit _(that hung from his wasted frame)_ and travel to a restaurant to order food he could no longer eat, just so he could tell it?

As Mycroft paused, searching for the words to continue his tale, the waiter whisked the soup bowls away, replacing them with plates containing poached fish for Mycroft and sizzling chops for John. Neither moved to address his plate; the story was what mattered now.

“Mummy and I were able to handle it, though. I did my best to care for my little brother so that Mummy could concentrate on Father. It was an excellent system, and things went quite smoothly until I was fourteen, when I went away to school.”

He shifted slightly in his seat, then forged ahead.

“I enjoyed school, of course. Being away from that house... being with boys my own age, whose families were more _regular_... I began to see how atypical things were at home, with the enforced silence when Father was home and Mummy’s restraint in his presence. I began to worry more deeply about my brother, who was now eight years of age, tremendously precocious, and incapable of holding his tongue. But if I’m to be entirely honest, John, I must admit that being free of it felt so good.”

John couldn’t tell whether the wince that distorted Mycroft’s face was due to physical or emotional pain. He suspected that it might be both.

“Mycroft—” Suddenly, he didn’t want to hear more.

“So I throttled my fears, kept my letters home superficial, and urged Sherlock to ingratiate himself with Father. It was disastrous, of course. ”

He fell silent, then raised his eyes to meet John’s.

“Father’s research was going badly. He was explaining his difficulties to Mummy at dinner one evening, and Sherlock asked a question that apparently shed an entirely new light on the matter. I don’t know what it was... It’s not important, and even now, I can’t even begin to understand what my father’s research was all about, even though Mummy tried to explain. But Father was already threatened by the amount of time Mummy was spending with Sherlock in my absence, and now he saw this eight-year-old boy as potential competition professionally. He reacted violently, injuring Sherlock badly before Mummy intervened. He injured her, too.

“He fled the house before the police and ambulance arrived. Mummy and Sherlock were both hospitalised—Mummy for several days, Sherlock for two weeks—and the police informed my headmaster what had occurred. I insisted on returning home, of course, and the headmaster’s wife drove me, first to the hospital and then to the neighbours’, where I would stay until Mummy came home.

“The next morning, the police came to tell me that Father had been found hanging in Sherlock’s bedroom. They called it suicide. Imbeciles.”

At John's sharp intake of breath, he dropped his gaze back to the fork in his hand.

“Within two days of meeting my brother, you killed for him. It took me eight years to reach that point.”

“Mycroft...” John breathed.

“I know that I can leave him in your hands. I know you’ll take care of him.”

“Mycroft, he’s no longer a child.”

“No, he isn’t. But he needs someone to watch over him.”

“He’s a grown man, Mycroft. And I’m never going to be his minder. I’m his partner... his lover. I’ll care for him exactly as I always have... the same way he cares for me.”

Mycroft stared at his fork for a long moment before laying it decisively on his plate. "That will have to do, then. Farewell, John Watson. And thank you."

He stood with difficulty, and his aides leapt from a nearby table to assist him. John remained seated, struggling to organise his thoughts.

“Mycroft,” he blurted as the trio turned away. They paused, and Sherlock’s brother looked back. “Did he know?”

Mycroft’s head sagged. “He hated me from that day on, although he never told anyone why.”

 _And since that night, you’ve tried to control the world. And Sherlock has tried to solve unsolvable crimes._

“And your mother...?”

“...Is very good at not seeing what she doesn’t wish to see. It’s all a long time ago, John. And it’s best reburied. I thought you should know, though.”

“Yes, yes. I... needed to know.” John stood and stepped forward, facing the man who had watched over his beloved for so very long.

“Mycroft, why do you think he needs such focused protection, even now? He’s actually taking fewer risks than he used to, these days.”

For an instant, the frail man’s control slipped, and John glimpsed a mixture of horror and dread in the pale eyes.

“As I said, Sherlock is very like our father.”

 _Oh… oh… oh… He hasn’t merely been trying to protect Sherlock from the world and from himself. He’s been trying…_ John blinked, trying to assimilate this new view.

Mycroft turned away from John’s shocked face, stepping forward to rejoin his associates. John’s hand on his arm halted him.

“Your father, Mycroft… Did he have siblings? An older brother?”

Once more, the man turned, this time shaking his head. “No, he was an only child. Why?”

“Ah.” _Not the same, then. Not the same at all._

He extended his hand, hoping the other man would reciprocate, leaving it out despite Mycroft’s flinch and the dawning realisation on his face.

“Thank you, Mycroft, for saving him.”

Long, trembling fingers crept forward to meet John’s capable, blunt hand. Through his warm grasp, John tried to convey his gratitude and respect. He knew he had succeeded when Mycroft stepped away, eyes bright.

“Thank you, John Watson.”

He allowed his aides to assist him into his coat, and he grasped the arm of the stronger of the two as they made their way to the door. John stood by his table, watching until Mycroft was swallowed by the rainy night.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the Sherlock fandom, as well as the first story I've been able to write in over six months! I hope you like it!
> 
> Many, many thanks to my alpha- and beta-readers: sc010f, pyjamapants, machshefa, richardgloucester, ferporcel, mischievous_t and subversa. Any errors or weaknesses that remain are all mine!


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